


a tunnel from my window to yours

by earlgreyhot



Series: with my lightnin' bolts a-glowin' [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Character Study, Choking, Codependency, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Height Differences, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Scars, there's good girls and mines in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 11:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30054846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreyhot/pseuds/earlgreyhot
Summary: Hermione returns to Hogwarts after the war to complete her N.E.W.T.s, but nothing is right. There's a brutal scar across her neck, one less roommate in her dorm, and a crackling fascination with Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: with my lightnin' bolts a-glowin' [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2211129
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	a tunnel from my window to yours

**Author's Note:**

> And if the snow buries my, my neighborhood  
> And if my parents are crying  
> Then I'll dig a tunnel from my window to yours  
> Yeah, a tunnel from my window to yours  
> You climb out the chimney  
> And meet me in the middle, the middle of the town  
> And since there's no one else around  
> We let our hair grow long  
> And forget all we used to know  
> Then our skin gets thicker from  
> Living out in the snow  
> You change all the lead  
> Sleepin' in my head  
> As the day grows dim  
> I hear you sing a golden hymn  
> — [“Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)” by Arcade Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V17u5x0CkvM)

Whenever she looked in a mirror, she never saw a scar but the glistening joy of sadism as Bellatrix Lestrange locked eyes with her to witness the specific second that her life force was severed from her body. Had Hermione never cried in that bathroom stall in First Year, had Harry not been locked in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor, Hermione would have died with the weight of Bellatrix Lestrange suffocating her, those wild dark eyes crackling with unbridled glee as Hermione’s silent tears burned hot streaks down to her ears, drenching her hair. She fought against swallowing down a painful ache, lest her throat brush against the sharpened blade and her death come from herself. She twitched at the tickling itch in her throat. Just swallow, her mind had told her. Nothing terrible ever happened from swallowing. Then Harry had come and stolen her from that terrible place.

For weeks now, she slept in only thick sweaters, a fluffy turtleneck bunching up to her chin, the last thing she saw at night, first thing in the morning. She laid out her clothing the night before, never brushing her teeth before the bathroom mirror until she had dressed into her uniform, pajamas. Beneath the scarf was the scar carved across her throat from Bellatrix’s cursed blade, branding her with the raised, white scar tissue that St. Mungo’s and Muggle medicine could not remove because Dark Magic had placed it there. The last time she had seen the scar was in her bedroom at home when she had to explain to her parents exactly how she had received it in as cryptic detail as possible to avoid breaking the Statute of Secrecy. They knew she was lying; she could tell in how their glistening eyes pooled with despair, but they also knew from their reversed Obliviations that there would always be information she would hide to protect them, that ignorance saved their lives. They all had to learn how to live with that.

Parvati Patil had never asked her about the scarf—others did, but never her. Hermione supposed her motivation involved the missing third bed in their dormitory that Lavender had once slept in every night. Hermione had not appreciated the blonde, not until she was gone, and the dormitory was unnaturally quiet without her giggling beside Parvati over tea leaves, boys, their hair. Missing creaks from her moving around at night, waking Hermione up from her sleep, shrieked from their ghoulish silence. Parvati slept like the dead, never waking up Hemione Granger, resident light sleeper. When Hermione’s eyes snapped open in the morning, the vivid dreams of the night before vanished into the ethers, but that sensation of full rest curled around her throat and tighten until her chest cried; lungs trembled; breath whimpered for release but remaining trapped where she could not access it.

Parvati and Hermione sat together in nearly every class. Harry and Ron, Hermione and Parvati, an even pair. The girls did not chat, but Hermione did not feel like chatting.

One day in Potions, Hermione concentrated on mincing the garlic on the cutting block with all the vigor and stamina she could muster, but every few seconds her attention waned from the task toward the clammy heat of the winter scarf looped around her neck which itched and irritated her skin. Her hair grew so damp with sweat that the hair closest to her neck flattened and clung to her skin. But removing it was not an option—the thought so horrifying that her heart did not patter but pounded, fighting to punch its way through her ribcage and run as far as it could away from her body.

She focused on the mincing the garlic and the fire blooming beneath the cauldron that Parvati curtailed into a controlled medium flame. The heat that radiated from the fire stole any possible freshness from the air. If she did not rip off the scarf and feel air lick away the moisture from her clammy skin, she would go mad from the agony of the wool scratching at her skin. Just a tug to loosen the loops, a wisp of space, a lick of air, she needed little else. Desperately, she glanced at the ingredient list, noticing they had forgotten the lavender, and she could have cried right there in the N.E.W.T. level Potions lesson.

Running the garlic-free hand over her bushy hair, Hermione stepped far away from the cauldron’s flame. “We forgot the lav—something. I’ll go—I’ll go get it.”

“Right,” said Parvati, hollow. “Good luck.”

She walked briskly to the cabinets, relishing at the prospect of loosening the loops of her scarf. She practically clawed the doors open, feverish. The old wood creaked open, and once the door hid her from view, she tugged the scarf away from her throat and held back a sharp gasp as the cool air turned her sweat to ice.

She relished it for a moment, then focused on the assignment.

She sorted through the vials and cloth drawstring pouches, tongue pressed against her teeth, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Thyme, mistletoe, fawn’s fur, morning dew... no lavender. She stood on her tiptoes to reach into the highest shelf she could touch, the second up from the middle, but her fingertips barely grazed past the edge closest to her. Breasts knocking into vials on the shelf below, Hermione arched her abdomen inward and tried not to fall into the shelves.

The luxurious aroma of expensive cologne tickled her nose, and her eyes fluttered shut, sigh flowing out her flips, and she unconsciously inhaled deeply through her nose. Bergamot, cedarwood, sage, musk. A certain boy stood behind her, so close his heat tingled along her spine as his arm brushed over her shoulder and reached the two shelves above the one that she struggled with. His heat did not stifle her, and it was not until then that Hermione noticed she had forgotten entirely about the oppressive humidity from her scarf.

“Your arms are as short as your legs,” drawled Draco Malfoy.

A race of adrenaline shot down her spine and sent her heart pattering. She faltered, lowered a wisp of fragment toward standing on her heels, not brushing against his chest, but leaning ever so slightly. He pressed against her just as minutely. They grew still, held, his jaw pressed into her hair at the crown of her head, the strands shifting down to the tips. Fissions of delight sparked all over her scalp.

She fought against the urge to touch her neck, not to rip off her scarf but to trace over her scar, to chase down the memory of Draco Malfoy behind his Aunt Bellatrix, at the horror stuck, helpless gray eyes never leaving hers. He was her only solace as Bellatrix’s choking weight prevented her from breathing and her knife drew blood along her throat, stopping short of her jugular vein. Her arm had moved, fingers shifted, her heart pulled toward the only sympathy in that room. The strongest, primal urge to be held in his humane arms had been the only thought stronger than the urge to cry and scream, Draco the pillar of strength that kept her from the humiliation of begging for mercy.

She told no one about him, not Ron and Harry, not even Ginny, and she had even told Ginny about the love she had felt for Ron, back when she had cared for him in that way, in the time before an instinct awakened in her as she had looked into Draco Malfoy’s terrified, empathetic eyes.

“Do you,” he said, and she was pulled back to the cabinet, to his warmth scorching her. He fell silent, a question left hanging.

Hermione shifted, turned her head slightly, ever so slightly, toward him. His jaw tucked over her head. He held her completely. “Yes?” she asked, in a whisper.

“If you need help,” he said, then added quickly, “getting something off the shelf, I mean, I could...”

“—Lavender.”

“It’s right here.”

He reached farther back into the shelf, and the pressure of him against her forced Hermione to lean forward, her breast colliding with vials, glass clinking, toppling others farther into the shadows. Her bum nestled into his groin as if she belonged there. Her heartbeat quickened all of a sudden. Yes, she belonged there. She belonged in his arms, where it was safe. Where no one vile could touch her ever again. Her pussy ached from out of nowhere.

Malfoy pulled out a pouch from the darkest parts of the shelf, but he kept it at the ledge, lingering.

Her pulse flooded her ears. If he gave it to her, that was goodbye.

“I’m working on my Transfiguration essay tonight in the library,” blurted Hermione.

Malfoy swallowed thickly, his apple rubbing over her scalp. “It’s not due until next week.”

She chewed on her lip. “I know.”

“I don’t have a thesis yet.”

Her lip hurt from how hard she bit it. “Come tonight and I can help you out. I—” She squeezed her eyes shut, wrinkling her nose as a trepidatious bundle of nerves strangled her stomach. “I have a permission slip to access the Forbidden Section. I can leave the door unlocked.”

The silence stretched on for infinity. But then Malfoy said, “I’ll see you.”

He set down the pouch three shelves down, then slipped away. The cold washed over her back in the absence of his heat. She stumbled back, stunned silly. Tightening her scarf, she retrieved the pouch and left.

*

The wood-burning fire smelled just the same as Hermione’s first night in Gryffindor Tower: sweet, smokey. That had been the moment she first met Parvati and Lavender. The light sparkled in their eyes; their smiles beamed brightly. They battled to see who could tolerate the heat the longest, no one buckling first, and the three whipped their hands back in unison. They shook with nervous glee as they dashed up the staircase to their rooms, wished another a goodnight as they blew out their candles, but come morning in their first lesson, Hermione opened her know-it-all mouth and corrected the other girls on some minor flick of their wands, as she was wont to do, and Parvati and Lavender had never included her since.

And now Parvati sat beside in her every lesson. Funny how life changed at the snap of a finger. Strange how Lavender existed so vividly in her head.

“That opens us open for attack!” shouted Ginny.

Hermione flinched, torn back to reality. Her eyes stung from having stared into the fire for so long, not realizing as her gaze had gone glassy, trapped in memory. She blinked away spots in her vision.

“Oh, come on, give it here.” Ginny reached for the quill that Ron held. He evaded her.

A glimpse of the past, just Quidditch and sibling rivalry. They were bizarre to look at it.

Hermione gathered up her quills and parchment into her bookbag, glancing shortly at them and listening absently with half an ear.

Harry, Ron, and Ginny discussed the upcoming Quidditch tryouts. As a returning eighth year, Harry had been reappointed the position as the captain of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team, and Ron and Ginny skirted the line between bribery and honesty in securing their old positions as Chaser and Keeper. Eons ago, Hermione had once feigned enough of care over the sport to Confound Cormac MacLaggen in tryouts and help Ron onto the team. Bizarre.

Hermione peeked at the parchment they huddled over and tried to decipher Ron’s scribbles: crosses, circles, and various bewildering, curling arrows. She crinkled a brow. “What are you drawing?” she asked. “It looks like rubbish.”

Ron lifted his head sharply, mouth falling open. “Harry, pinch me.”

“No time for that,” said Harry.

“Why on Earth should Harry pinch you?” Hermione pulled at the straps of her bag and held it closer to her chest.

“I know something that you don’t know.” Ron knocked on the side of his head. “That hurt. That actually hurt. I’m not dreaming.”

“Of course, you’re not dreaming.”

Ginny laughed. “Well, Ron, she can’t even fly a broom. It’s not exactly fair to expect she’d recognize Quidditch plays.”

Hermione’s cheeks burned. “I can fly a broom!”

“Right.”

“I can!”

Ginny and Ron exchanged cheeky grins, and Harry surfaced from his deep analysis of the parchment. “She flew a dragon,” said Harry.

“Not a broom,” said Ron.

“Definitely not a broom,” said Ginny.

Hermione did not have time for this. Malfoy was waiting for her, and her essay would not write itself. She shot up to stand and swung her bag onto her shoulder. “Thank you, Harry,” she said. “Now, I’m going to the library. I’ll see you all in the morning. Harry, Ron, don’t forget the notes I gave you for the Charms exam.”

But as she spoke, Ron and Harry returned to bracing so closely to the Quidditch plays that Harry did not even look up, and Ron just mumbled out, “Mhmm.”

She turned up her nose and swept off, her thick, unruly hair bouncing.

*

Darkness lurked in the depths of the Forbidden Section. Torches in iron sconces dotted the stone friezes and cast flickers of light and shadow over the chiseled embossments of gargoyles, florals arrangements, Latin mottos. The aisles were bright enough to not trip over raised stonework on the ground, however so dark that book titles were visible only by the radiance of a private candle. Hermione hid away in a faraway aisle and leaned against the cool wooden wall, the space behind her back absorbing her heat. She stretched her legs out with ankles crossed, shoes off and beside her book bag. She held a book so high and as close as possible to her eyes without blurring the words, reading from the light of conjured blue flames luminescing within numerous iron lanterns that rested on the floor, perched on empty spaces in shelves, floated in midair.

Humiliation from Ginny’s joke had sent her mind spinning and her pace too brisk. She had frantically pulled off every book she could find at a moment’s glance on broomsticks and dashed off with a slight hop in her step, not breaking out into a run as that was expressly against the rules. She absconded herself in the farthest reaches of the Forbidden Section and stuck her nose in the first book in the pile. The familiarity of her thirst for knowledge, to arrive at long last with the final, striking blow after having her ignorance forcibly set on display, soothed rising anxiety that lived deep within her. There would never be an opportunity for Ginny to laugh at her lack of flying skills again. Hermione would show her—show all of them. She could fly. She could fly better than all of them. Just wait and see.

But before hopping onto a broom, she ought to understand it down to the individual fibers of the bristles. She doubted Ginny or Ron knew anything about brooms. Wizards flew enchanted besoms made from the twigs of birch trees grown in forests enchanted by soil fertilized with magic. The poles were carved from the cores of magically grown hazelwood, and while Muggles utilized wire bindings to attach the twigs, wizards preferred enchanted split. Some Quidditch players did not select their brooms but the broom selected them by the magic within each broom calling out to the players, akin to wands.

The door to the Forbidden Section creaked.

Hermione froze, glance cutting over the page in her book to the darkness of the Forbidden Section not illuminated by her lanterns.

The door clicked shut, locking, and her breath hitched in the silence that followed.

The steady clack of shoes moving over the stone floor trailed through aisles, growing nearer and nearer.

“Granger?” whispered Malfoy.

Clutching her book, Hermione said, “Over here!”

The measured, even steps of his shoes grew in intensity. The reverberation struck Hermione between her legs. Then they were louder than ever.

Malfoy arrived at the end of the aisle.

She watched him, and he watched her. He smirked.

“A little light reading?” he said.

Six books on broomsticks alone were piled beside her. “Cross-references are essential to fully understand a topic.”

“It is.” His shoes clacked as he crept into the aisle.

She strained to read the words on the page, but then his bag dropped, and he sat down, lifting her feet and dropping them on his lap. An intense pressure pooled over her nub—dissipated after a heartbeat.

Malfoy’s fingers ghosted over the soft fabric of the sock at the top of her foot. The second his fingertips touched her, an electric jolt raced from her foot and up her thigh till it pooled in her pussy and her nub pulsated. He enveloped her foot in his hand—the heat from his flesh seared her, smothering the cold, dusty air of the library with his warmth. His palm and fingers held her instep in a single grip. She clutched the covers of her textbook to stop herself from looking over and seeing her smaller foot trapped in his larger hold. Lightly, he touched her, his fingers and thumb sliding over the sensitive skin of her arch. His fingers were rough from calluses, catching on the fabric and burning with a warmth that lightly scratched her. Her nub scorched with a wave of need for Malfoy, and the inner walls of her pussy pulsated once, shocking her dumbstruck.

Whenever his touch left her skin to touch her elsewhere, a burning need shot up her leg and coursed through her pussy. She stiffened her toes and ankle, preventing them from twitching at the light teasing, fearing that if she showed any adverse reaction, Malfoy might stop. Her pussy started to ache, clench involuntarily, more and more starting to feel neglected and seeking out something to fill her. She fought against the urge to squeeze her thighs together. She ached more every time Malfoy’s fingertips grazed just below her toes as he slowly dragged his warm touch from the heel of her foot and back up. She just knew it would feel earthshattering if he rolled them between his fingertips.

Miraculously, he touched her toes and held them, pausing. A burn of pleasure shot up to her pussy. She peeled her eyes away from the book she had long stopped reading and studied him. He gazed down at her foot with heavily hooded eyes, those familiar gray eyes darkened with an intensity that made the walls of Hermione’s pussy clench, the ache too hard to ignore as she grew deeper, empty—like she needed Malfoy’s cock inside her, thick, thrusting.

She imagined him braced over her, his weight crushing her chest, cutting off her breath, trapping it inside constricted lungs that could not bloom and gasp for air. His lips kissing her neck, teeth nipping at her ear. Hand pushing at the juncture of her throat and jaw, keeping her still, just where he wanted her. She wanted his weight to keep her there with him because she was his.

Without thinking, she bit her lip and squeezed her thighs together to quell the ache between her legs. Her foot shifted in Malfoy’s hand, and his fingers rubbed her toes, the pressure so intense and arousing that Hermione’s ignored foot slapped down on his lap to prevent her from shoving her other foot firmer into Malfoy’s hand.

Something hard and long in Malfoy’s trousers met her sole.

Hermione set down her book as calmly as possible to witness what she believed to be Malfoy’s cock, hard from touching her, and indeed there beneath her foot were the unmistakable signs of his erection straining against the threadwork of his trousers. Hermione flexed her toes in his grasp, biting her lip as electricity shot up her leg. He took all five toes into his rough palm and massaged them. She pressed her other foot against his cock, the friction and roughness from the fabric of his trousers against the sensitive skin of her sole so mind-numbingly good that she lost herself in the sensation of Malfoy touching her. Her entrance ached. Acting on pure impulse, she pressed her foot firmer on his erection, where she believed the tip to be. His chest rose from a sharp breath, the hitch of it echoing.

“Malfoy,” she said, thickly. Clearing her throat, she said, “Malfoy, I’m—” She needed him so badly. She needed him to touch her in places no one else had, to be there first, to know her better than anyone. She looked down, not wanting to see his rejection when she finally said it aloud. “I need, want you—Oh, Malfoy.”

His grey eyes cut over to meet her gaze, heavy and dark, shadows dancing over his pointed features from the flickering lantern light. Quicksilver in the light, thunder in the dark.

The warmth left her foot, the cold burning, and did little to settle the heat blazing in her knickers.

Malfoy leaned over her, hands and knees trapping her where she sat.

His tie hung from the collar, brushing over her breasts. Timidly, she grasped it, close to the knot, and pulled him closer, closer, closer until their eyes reflexively shut from the short distance. Her lips tingled from his breath. She craned forward to shorten the distance. Their lips touched—and Hermione barely had a second to process it before Malfoy devoured her—sucking, biting, and drawing open her mouth with a teasing tongue that coaxed out energy within her that she had not realized had been dormant. He slipped a hand up her arm, fingers dancing over the scarf before finding its way to her hair and sifting through the bushy mass. His hands inevitably tangled into a knot, but he did not stop kissing her or crack a joke. He nipped at her lips; she licked his tongue; they kissed in a messy tandem with a fluidity that spurred the walls of her pussy to pulsate, her nub to throb. She lifted a knee. Malfoy noticed the movement and shifted to help her free the leg. She hooked it around his thigh to keep him there, braced above her.

Malfoy abandoned her lips and kissed along her jaw, loosening the scarf as he kissed further along her neck. Her heart started to pound, her thoughts reeling ever so slightly back to reality—but she realized, the only person she could trust to see this scar, to understand its depth, was Malfoy. The suffocating fibers slipped away, the dark, dusty air of the Forbidden Section cool and intoxicating over her skin. Malfoy held her face in his palm, stroking her cheek, the curve from his thumb to his forefinger pressing against her throat. Hermione leaned her head back against the wall, baring her throat and scar to him, hoping he would soon see it.

His hand slipped, brushing over her collarbones, fingertips dusting off the sweat and memories across her throat. He lingered over the raised skin that tormented her every hour, the scar tissue tingling slightly more than elsewhere on her neck. The lantern’s light caught in his pale eyes, and a wondrous glow illuminated the harrowed gleam, the flash of fear dilating his pupils. His eyebrows drew down in a contemplation that visibly muddied his thoughts.

She released his tie, reached up, and grasped his cheek, feeling sharp and prickly platinum hairs from a day’s growth. She scraped her nails across his shadow of a beard.

“Kiss it,” she said. _Kiss my scar._

From the flicker in his gaze, she knew he understood.

“I’m yours.”

He curled his fingers around her throat, so lightly she could slip out whenever she wanted. He stood up, Hermione rising to her knees as she followed him. The book on her lap clattered to the floor, pages turning, but Hermione did not care for it. They arose, his hand still on her neck. They stepped to the bookcase, halting once Malfoy’s back collided with the shelves.

His gaze whisked over her face. “You’re mine?” he said.

“Yours.”

His fragile hold tightened, and he eased her head back, baring her neck to him, and she fell back to expose more of herself. He wrapped her in a one-armed embrace, his other hand pressing to the curve of her spine.

He dove for her neck, kissing her, biting her skin, licking across the scar. She collapsed into his hold. His hand fell to her bum, slipping under her skirt to grab a cheek, squeezing, kneading it. Her nerves were sent aflame, waves and waves washing over her as pleasure coursed from her neck and bum to warm her up everywhere. Her eyes lolled. She exhaled harshly. Malfoy collapsed onto the bookcase, books falling from the shelves and crashing onto the floor. She swayed in his arms, unbalanced.

His hips shifted. His knee settled between her legs, hitching up her skirt until the roughness of his trousers pressed against her knickers and his hard cock stabbed her thigh, pain erupting as he pulled her tighter. She rocked against his cock, choking back small groans when the pain crossed over from unbearable to shooting pleasure straight to her nub. Her eyelashes fluttered as his thigh rubbed against her knickers, but it did not ease the ache there, not when he was not anywhere near close enough, and that just made the ache strengthen, worsen. She squirmed beneath him, rubbing herself over his thigh, agonizing her leg against his cock. All that separated them were those thin layers of fabric.

Her fingers dug into his shirt, fisting it. She tried to take a steady breath to settle her nerves, only her breath hitched, caught in her throat, as she writhed beneath him.

She could not stand this any longer. She did not know how long he intended to kiss her, squeeze her bum, but she would go mad if they did not do something new.

His hands were restless, grasping her neck, cupping her jaw, moving through her hair until his palm pillowed the back of her head and scratch lightly at her scalp with dizzying pleasure. Her nails clawed at his shirt, aching to tear it off him. Then he nipped at her chin, kissed her throat. It felt like every nerve she did not know she possessed was sent ablaze as he kissed her neck. His shirt bunched in her fists, she attempted and failed to arch into him as his strength kept her in place. A tortured moan tore out of her throat as she could achieve little else but experience his lips, teeth, and tongue taste and nip at the sensitive skin of her neck. He kissed his way to her earlobes, a part of her no one had touched, little else seen what with her massive, bushy hair covering her. Her nub tingled, and she squirmed against his thigh, her moan devolving into a little cry because it was not enough, and she could not move. For what little she could, she grasped his well-styled hair and tugged—not enough to pull him away from her neck, just enough to do something. Ruining his groomed hair excited her. Her nails scratched down his rib cage, fingertips catching on the hem of his shirt. She slipped a hand beneath it. Her fingertips grazed the warm, soft skin of his belly. She scratched him, and his kisses and bites on her neck and ears shuddered for a breath.

“Hermione,” he whispered, and the hand on her bum slipped away. It led a scorching path across her hips, then over her thigh, pinching and pulling at her skirt until her bare thigh was exposed. His leg moved. She moaned as a jolt in her pussy agonized her from the loss of his touch. But then Malfoy’s fingertips teased at the elastic of her knickers.

“Malfoy,” she begged. “Malfoy, please, I—”

He bit down on her neck. She gasped and floated off into somewhere else, lost in the cascade of pleasure from his kisses. His hand abandoned the elastic to instead focus on the fabric between her legs, softly petting her pussy. Reflexively, she rubbed herself over his hand—needing more of him, needing him to touch her properly. She felt so empty, her nub hot and neglected. He could just circle his thumb around her nub once, that was all she needed. Feverishly, she ran her fingers through his hair, clutching and releasing fistfuls of his hair at random, messing it beyond repair. “Malfoy, please, I can’t, Merlin, it’s agony, Malfoy…”

He kissed her neck and licked her ear, whispering, “Draco. Be a good girl and say it.”

Her toes curled; knees shook. “I—”

Then he stopped petting her knickers, pulled her hair. “Don’t make me sad, Hermione.”

He had never spoken her first name before. Her head felt light, stomach fluttered. “I—Draco, please, I can’t...”

“That’s a good girl.”

He slipped his hand beneath the fabric, touching her naked folds, and she moaned and gripped his hair so hard that she moved his head, and he kissed her cheek instead of her ear. He snickered, rubbing his nose against her. He palmed her, not touching her pussy properly, just the outskirts, and she wanted to cry, eyes watering.

He kissed her. Properly on the lips—and the intimacy of it shut her up better than his mouth did. He kneaded the folds of her pussy, slowly driving her mad, and in revenge, whenever he tried to nip her lips and attempt to taste the inside of her with his tongue, she turned a little bit away, just enough for Malfoy to not get what he wanted, just like her.

Only then he grabbed her hair firmer, stopping her from moving. He kissed her deeply, opened his mouth wide, her lips fluid and pliant beneath his, and as he shoved his tongue into her mouth, he slipped two fingers into her folds. And he did not tease her. He penetrated her pussy.

She was so wet and aching that she did not need any easing into it, but regardless Malfoy did not place his fingers too deep inside her. He slipped them slowly in and out, then, at last, he pressed them in deeper, but kept them steady and still, to stretch her out, to get her pussy used to him, and with his thumb, slickened from her arousal, he circled her nub in slow, steady strokes—and promptly Hermione started shaking beneath him as a moan built up out of nowhere, loud and deep in her throat. She gasped for air between kisses.

“Hermione,” he whispered over her lips, “Hermione, Hermione,” but she could not quite hear him. It was not until he repeated her name over and over that she realized he had never been saying her name at all but “Mine, mine, mine.”

His fingers slipped deeper inside, hooking and stroking her walls. He pressed his thumb harder, slow circles intermixed with stroking over the highest peak of her nub. Her muscles tightened out of instinct—she forced herself to relax, but the intensity beneath his thumb pulled together in a center of gravity drawing her arousal closer and closer to the tip of his finger. Her breath caught, yet a moan pierced through it. Feverishly, she grabbed his tie, pulled hard enough on his hair that he bit her lip to prevent her from stopping their kiss. She collapsed into his arms, her knees shaking, thighs trembling; her cheek fell to his shirt, her wet lips clinging to the fabric as she hungrily kissed his chest.

But then he stopped touching her nub—lifting his thumb away.

An intense agony of pleasure pierced her in his absence, and she sobbed into his shirt, tears pooling in her eyelashes, falling and soaking his shirt. “Draco, Draco, please, I’m so close, please...”

Chuckling, he kissed the top of her head and stroked her again with slow, soft circles that were not nearly enough, but at every lap around her nub, the pressure intensified, sped grew. It suddenly became too much; she wanted to tear away but simultaneously stay still, not move away from him even slightly, then she crossed over a precipice, a horizon of pleasure, and her thoughts stopped, her senses heightened and dulled and surmounted an invisible reality that surrounded the entire universe.

Moans flooded out from her lips, each drowning the other, some soft, others so loud she wondered if others could hear, some strangled in her throat as her pleasure peaked. Malfoy released her hair and clamped his hand over her mouth, fingers digging into her cheeks and pressing against her nostrils, smothering her moans, and restoring silence to the Forbidden Section. Her tears fell over his fingers, saliva soaked his hand as her burning lungs fought to suck in a breath. Her grip twisted in his shirt; her cheeks burned. Her legs trembled from staying upright. Distantly, she felt him kiss her forehead.

Then all at once, the pleasure came crashing down. She fell limp in his arms; his touch on her slowed, circling her nub softly to chase down lingering pulsations. She writhed beneath him, not knowing how much more she could bear, yet not wanting him to stop. His fingers slid out from inside her, his thumb left her nub, and his slick hand gave her pussy a squeeze that sent a wave of lingering pleasure coursing through her.

He massaged her pussy as he left her knickers and released her mouth, wiping his hands dry on his trousers, and slipped a hand under her shirt to stroke the small of her back, keeping her close, thumb tracing a half-moon over her spine. Hermione was content just being held, admiring his scent, disappearing into the haze that quieted her thoughts, leaving her cognizant only of Malfoy’s hand on her back, the clothing beneath her cheek, the steady rise and fall of his breath in tandem to the faint, constant drumming of his heart. Clinging to him, she buried her face into his chest, breathing in his rich cologne, the natural scent lingering in his clean shirt after a long day. She rubbed her nose against the fabric, immersing herself in him.

Her skin buzzed as her chest bloomed with deep breaths. Her legs felt weightless. Heart soared from delight and elation. No thought occurred to her, no memory lifting her, not even those of Malfoy’s hands coaxing primal sensation from deep within her core. When she began to drift away in tranquil slumber, she forced herself to pull away, not wanting to ruin her sleep that night. His plaint arms followed her movement, falling to rest on her waist. Her chin tipped up, brown eyes gazing dreamily into half-lidded gray.

He smiled. Not a smirk, not a sardonic quirk, but an earnest, happy smile. Stomach fluttering, Hermione smiled back.

“I—” His smile fell, brows drew together, worried lines creasing between them. He looked away, somewhere over her shoulder. “Thank you... for letting me be here.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and played with his hair. “It was my pleasure.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. Erm, ever since... you know, that... I—I need you, that’s all.”

The apple of his throat rose. His hands squeezed her hips. “Likewise.”

They were saying goodbye, and she panicked. She could not allow him to simply leave—her scarf lied at some unknown location on the library floor, gathering dust and dirt that she would need to magically clean off. He had seen the scar. He had not simply kissed it but ravished her. Ideas on how to secure the next time with Malfoy flickered so fast in her mind that she barely caught any until she remembered her scarf, the pile of books on broomsticks accompanying them on the cold stone tiles.

“Teach me how to fly?” she ventured.

“You don’t know how to fly?” he asked, incredulous.

Her cheeks burned. Honestly, he did not need to sound so shocked. “Of course, I know how to fly! I simply want to be more proficient.”

A smirk snaked across his pointed features. “Okay, I’ll teach you. Friday morning good for you? There’s Quidditch tryouts on Saturday.”

She frowned. “Isn’t Saturday Gryffindor tryouts?”

“Exactly.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “All right, fine. Friday is perfect.”

“Brilliant. Friday, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't "the end" and what's set up here will continue, but it felt disingenuous with how I plan to write the rest of the story to post it as a multichapter. They'll all be short stories that have a conclusion, some more open ended than others, and vary in length. So it's going to be a series... a smut anthology (with subliminal messages to listen to Arcade Fire). Dramione won't be the only POV ship. There's also Parvati/Harry. There's no outside POV. If this interests you, feel free to subscribe to the series for more updates with Dramione and Parvati/Harry in this angsty 8th year series. ♥
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the fic, let me know what you think! Comments, kudos, books, subscriptions keep me going ♥♥♥  
> 
> 
> [tumblr post with dark academia moodboard](https://mydearestprongs.tumblr.com/post/645754382639611904/from-my-window-to-yours-by)


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